“Well …” I groped and came up with it. “Perhaps if you went away for a while …”
“Yes, go on,” she prodded me.
“A trip to Europe. You’ve never been there, have you? Maybe even a trip around the world—”
“Wonderful!” She threw up her hands in bitter laughter. “Absolutely and positively priceless. The two of you ought to go into vaudeville together.”
“Now, listen to me—” Enough was enough.
“No, you listen to me, Sidney.” She put her hands on the desk; her eyes were blazing. “You’re still making the big mistake of underestimating me. I can see that you don’t know me any better than you know J. J.”
I had to laugh in her face. That was a hot one. I didn’t know J. J. That was even hotter than the weather. “Suppose you tell me, then.”
“Didn’t you see his face that very first night I met Steve—that night at the Panamanian, when Steve came over to the table and asked if he might dance with me?”
If only she had said no. …
“Can’t you even remember how he acted, Sidney, the day I ran into you on Fifth Avenue, when I asked you to take me to lunch, and he found out about it later from someone else?”
Yes. He had gone into a frenzy, over nothing at all. … “I still don’t see what all this—.”
“It’s too bad you weren’t there the night, oh God, when I think of it now! We were living in Chicago then. I was fifteen years old and this boy took me home from a party, and J. J. opened the door and caught us kissing in the hall outside. Freddie Meadley was the boy’s name. I never forgot it. And I’ll never forget the look on J. J.’s face, and the way he screamed and tore into that poor boy and pounded his head on the stone floor as though he wanted to kill him. It was frightful, Sidney. He would have killed the boy without even knowing what he was doing if the elevator man hadn’t come up to see what the noise was about. And J. J. didn’t say a word to me. He just slapped my face and walked back into the apartment and didn’t speak to me for weeks.”
“Susan, look—” I squirmed in my chair.
“Sidney”—her face came closer—“what makes you think J. J. wants me to marry anyone—ever?”
“Don’t talk nonsense.”
“What makes you think he’ll ever come to realize that I’m not that fifteen-year-old girl any longer, and that he can’t hoard me like a miser? How long am I supposed to remain the shining image, the untouched maiden? Look at me, Sidney.”
But I couldn’t.
“Why has he always sent me away to girls’ schools—nunneries in disguise? Why did he insist I go to a college for women when I wanted to go to a coed place?” She jabbed at me. “When I came to New York this summer, why wouldn’t he let me stay at a hotel? Why did he ruin the perfectly beautiful study in his own apartment and turn it into a bedroom so that I’d be living under his watchful eye?”
I didn’t answer her.
“Why, Sidney?” Her voice grew more insistent. “Tell me—why?”
I was seeing Hunsecker’s contorted face and hearing the sickening thud of a head pounded against stone and the savage screams of a man possessed.
“What do you mean, why?” I looked up at her in desperate anger. “He’s always thinking of what’s best for you, that’s why. Because he loves you!”
“Love!” She tore the word apart harshly. “Exactly what he always said. I’ve got advice for you, Sidney. I’ve got advice for the world. Don’t be a late baby if you can help it. Don’t get born so late that your parents are never anything but elusive memories and well-kept graves. A brother makes a rotten father and mother, especially if he also happens to be J. J. Hunsecker. That’s why I’m pulling clear of him for good. Let him drive Steve out of show business. Let him hound me to the ends of the earth and deprive me of the dubious benefits of being a sister to the famous. I’m getting married, Sidney. Tomorrow!”
I jumped up from the chair. “Tomorrow!”
“Yes.” She laughed, a little hysterically. “Surprised, aren’t you? I wasn’t going to tell you.” She struggled to open her handbag. “I haven’t told J. J. and I don’t intend to.”
“You’ll break his heart.”
“I’m telling you, Sidney, because I can see that you don’t understand people very well. You still might do something foolish if you believe there’s a chance to frighten us off. I want you to know it won’t do any good.” She handed me a paper. “I just want you to know for sure.”
I took it. It was a marriage license. It would be valid tomorrow. I stared at it, at the awful finality of the words printed there.
“Susan, look—” My voice was hoarse.
“Oh, please,” she cried eagerly, “say ‘Congratulations.’ Wish me luck. Please, I want to hear someone say they’re happy to hear about it. Just once, please.”
“Why do you want to ruin the boy’s life? J. J. will never rest! You know what will happen to Dallas before J. J.’s through. Do you think the boy will be able to love you under those conditions?” I went to her quickly and took her arm. “Don’t do it, honey. Wait. Give me time. I’ll talk to J. J. Just give me time. Don’t run away with the boy. J. J. will never forgive you.”
“Never forgive me? Or never forgive you? Is that what you’re worried about?”
“Susan, you’ve got to promise me—”
“Sidney.” She cut me short.
I searched her eyes. They were cold.
“Stop playing with hatchets,” she said. “You weren’t meant for it. You’ll only cut yourself.”
She drew away from me and opened the door.
I went after her, past Gloria’s desk. “You don’t know what you’re doing—!”
“For the first time in my life, I really do,” she called back, “and I’ll never forgive you, Sidney, for not wishing me luck. It’s still possible I’ll need all I can get.”
I stood there watching her walk down the hall, a slip of a girl playing a grown-up game. I could have followed her, but I knew it wouldn’t have done any good—not when they were as young as she was. That was the trouble with them before they grew up and learned about the world they lived in—their brains were in their hearts.
I turned to Gloria. “Get me Irving Spahn.”
“Is anything the—?”
“Quickly.” I went inside and sank down at my desk. My hands were shaking. I was thinking about what would happen if Steve Dallas had no common sense either, and somehow I knew he hadn’t. He was too young. But I had to go through the motions.
I sat there waiting, and finally Gloria came in.
“Mr. Spahn doesn’t want to speak to you,” she said, looking at me queerly. “He said it was no use. He said he tried, but it was no use, and he has nothing to say.”
“All right,” I said dully.
“Mary called while you were—in conference.”
I looked up.
“She said Mr. Hunsecker is awake. He’s having his breakfast at Babe Scanlon’s in an hour.”
I glanced at my watch.
“He wants you to meet him there.”
“All right,” I said, staring blankly out of the window. “I’ll be there.” The important thing was to act as though everything were all right, as though everything were going off right on schedule. It wasn’t over yet. There were further levels to climb down to. …
I took my coat off the hanger.
“Mr. Falco?”
“What is it?”
“Can I go home now?”
“No,” I said. “I’ll call in.” I turned. “And Gloria, when I phone you, don’t say anything, just listen. You got that straight? Just listen.”
“Yes, Mr. Falco.”
There was no reason to underestimate oneself, no reason to give up. There wasn’t even any reason not to stop off at the Viking on the way.
III
The geezer at the stage-door entrance held his arm out in front of me. “Just a second. You can’t go in there.”
“That’s rig
ht, Pop,” I said, “and you can’t buy a Cadillac convertible with this.”
He took the ten and shrugged.
Herbie Temple was sitting at the mirror when I walked into the dressing room, covering the scars of too many years of obscurity with a thick layer of pancake. Al Evans was pacing back and forth behind him, straining his worried voice through an unlighted cigar.
I pointed a finger at Evans. “Hiya, tootsie.”
He looked up with a grunt of displeasure. “I didn’t know you and Herbie knew each other,” he muttered.
“We don’t,” I grinned. “How do you do, Mr. Temple?”
The comedian got to his feet quickly and, because there was no telling who I was, he hung a smile on his lean, aging face.
“My name is Sidney Falco.”
“Delighted.”
Evans looked at the tip of his cigar. “Mr. Falco is a press agent.”
The smile was still there, but it had suddenly congealed. I sat down on the studio couch.
Al Evans said, “Look, pappy, Herbie and me here were having a little talk, a sort of private business talk, you might call it.”
“Earning your ten percent, Al?” I looked right past his frown to Temple, who was back in front of the mirror with the pancake sponge. “I caught your act the other night, Mr. Temple.”
“Did you, now?” he said flatly. “On which bounce?”
“Ha ha—and I just had to drop by to tell you how positively great I thought you were. Great.”
Temple just stared at himself in the mirror. Then he said, “What time is it, Al?”
“You got fifteen minutes, Herbie.”
“That’s all?” He turned to me. “Then I’m sure Mr.—what did you say your name was?”
“Crosby,” I said. “Bing Crosby.”
“I’m sure Mr. Frannis-on-the-portisan will excuse us now, Al.”
Evans looked at me. “If you don’t mind, Falco.”
I got up. “Certainly,” I said. “But can I ask just one teeny-weeny question?”
“Now, please.”
“How come you’re allowing a sock act like Herbie Temple to tiptoe through town without a publicity campaign?”
Al Evans gave me the wise, all-knowing smile and shook his head slowly. “Uh-uh, Falco. We don’t want any today. No fish today.”
“But, baby,” I spread out my hands, “I’m not selling. I’m just curious, that’s all.”
“Answer the man, Al,” Temple said to the mirror. “The man says before he goes he just wants to ask one question, so answer the man before he thinks of another.”
Evans had my arm and was easing me toward the door. “Herbie doesn’t believe in press agents,” he said. “Does that answer it for you?”
“You got one word too many in there, Al,” said Temple. “Herbie doesn’t believe press agents. Unquote.”
I turned. “I know exactly how you feel, Mr. Temple. They all claim they’re going to do so much for you, and they never do. You might say there’s a broken promise for every light on Broadway—”
“You might. I never would.”
“—and about the only thing I can say for myself is that when I tell a prospective client how I’m going to get Hunsecker to take care of him, it’s not just talk.”
It was wonderful, the way Evans’ hand relaxed its pressure on my arm and Temple’s pancake sponge paused in midair at precisely the same word—the magic word, Hunsecker.
Without waiting, I stepped to the telephone quickly, saying, “I know you don’t believe me.”
“Here. Wait a minute,” Evans cried.
“Let him alone, Al.” Temple put down the sponge and turned to watch me.
I dialed my office and waited. Gloria answered on the third ring. I said, “Mr. Hunsecker, please.”
“What? Who is this?”
“Mr. Falco. Sidney Falco. I want to talk to Mr. Hunsecker. It’s important.” I stopped listening to her confusion and put my hand over the mouthpiece.
“Look,” Evans said, moving toward me, “we haven’t hired you. We didn’t talk any deal here—”
“Relax, baby,” I said. “I told you—I’m not selling anything. Not a thing.”
Gloria had fallen silent.
“Hello, J. J.? Sidney. How’re you, sweetheart? Good—good … attaboy. Listen, J. J., are you through with the column yet? … Oh, you are? … Well, look, it isn’t too late to add something, is it? … I know, I know, but you can always throw something out, can’t you? You’ve done it for me before. … Of course it’s important. Would I ask you if it wasn’t? … All right then. You know Herbie Temple? … What do you mean, what about him? He’s at the Viking, and he’s great, that’s what about him, and I want you to say something about him in tomorrow’s column. …”
I saw Temple and Evans exchange quick glances.
“J. J. … Listen to me, J. J. … I know, but … I know, but that’s beside the point. I want you to do it for me. … No, next week will be too late. Tomorrow. … Yes … Okay. Got a pencil there? … Just say, uh, let’s see. … ‘If there’s a more hilarious funnyman in the world than Herbie Temple … at the Viking … uh … you’ll have to pardon us for not catching the name … uh … we’re too busy laughing.’ No, make that ‘screaming.’ … I sure will, sweetheart … Right, baby … Oh, say, J. J., where you having dinner? … In twenty minutes? I think I could. … Why, sure, I’d love to. … Fine. Swell. Babe Scanlon’s in twenty minutes.”
I hung up and looked from one blank, staring face to the other.
“See what I mean?” I said to Herbie Temple. And for one brief, ridiculous instant I hoped that he wouldn’t. I hoped that somehow he’d show me that J. J. Hunsecker meant nothing to me. But it was an instant that was gone almost before it came.
Temple swung back to the mirror, saying, “Speak to him, Al.”
I moved to the door. “We’ll have you in pictures in no time, Mr. Temple,” I said. “Don’t worry about a thing.”
“Al makes the deals. Speak to Al,” he said.
“I got a dinner date, didn’t you hear?” I said. “Plenty of time tomorrow. You know where my office is, Al.”
“Yeah,” the agent said coldly, looking at me with hard, suspicious eyes, “why don’t we wait until tomorrow?”
I gave the man at the stage door a big good-by on the way out. He didn’t know it, but he was a bargain.
The dinner mobs were lined up twelve deep at Babe Scanlon’s.
Herman gave me an unseeing glance.
“I’m dining with Mr. Hunsecker,” I said. “He expects me.”
The waters parted. “Oh, right this way, please, Mr. Falco.”
He didn’t really have to lead me. I knew which table Hunsecker was at. There were always at least three waiters hovering over him, like buzzards circling a carcass. Any day I expected to find one of them waving a palm frond over the table.
I slid into a chair. “Hello, J. J.”
He looked up and grunted as he continued to shovel the food into his mouth.
I took up the bill of fare.
He pointed his fork at one of the waiters. “Bring him the same,” he commanded, “but tell them out there to put a little more garlic in the sauce.”
“I don’t think I feel like that tonight,” I said.
He cast his eyes on me for a moment, and then he turned back to the waiter. “And see that the onions are chopped fine. You want iced coffee with that?
I tossed the menu down. “All right,” I said. “Iced coffee.”
“Now tell the other two Marx brothers to get lost.”
The waiters shuffled away obediently.
“All right. Come on.” He snapped his fingers. “Get it over with. Take your bow before the food comes.”
I looked up at him. “You saw the items?”
“Of course I saw them. I always read the opposition. It’s like reading my wastebasket, or last week’s column.”
“Steve Dallas is through at the Elysian Room,” I announced q
uietly.
He forced a dill pickle into his mouth. “Well? Go on. Go on.”
“What do you mean, go on? He’s out, and the freeze is setting in on him.”
“I’m still listening,” J. J. said.
“What do you want me to tell you?”
“I want to hear that it’s all over, that the towel is in the ring. I’m not interested in the state of his employment. I don’t like words like ‘freeze.’ They’re too vague. They don’t cool me off a bit. Talk plainer, Sidney.”
I clutched at my napkin. I didn’t answer. There was nothing else to say.
“Talk louder, Sidney.”
Tell him. Go on. Maybe he’ll give up and free you. Tell him now, before it’s too late. If he doesn’t give up now …
“J. J. look—” My lips were trembling. “I—saw Susan today.”
He sucked in his breath. “What? Where?”
“In my office.”
His hand shot out across the table and grabbed my lapel. “I told you I didn’t want her up there!” he snarled.
“I didn’t ask her to come, J. J., I—”
“Who was she with?”
“She was alone.”
He pulled me closer. “Alone? Just you and she?” A man at the next table turned, startled at his tone.
“I have a secretary, J. J.” My voice was hoarse. “Her name is Gloria. Remember?”
He threw my lapel back at me. It was damp with perspiration.
“Well, come on, what for?” he snapped. “What was she there for?”
“To talk to me.” I straightened my tie.
“Talk? What about?” he cried. “What would you two have to talk about? Answer me, Sidney! What did she tell you?”
I stared at him for a moment. He’ll understand. He’ll know when to give up. “It’s no use, J. J. She’s leaving you. She says she’s marrying the boy tomorrow.”
His eyes searched my face wildly. They were naked and unguarded, and for an instant I saw the frantic, groping dismay in them. Then his face became cold and blank, and his twisted mouth broke out with a mirthless cackle.
“You’re very funny,” he said, cackling louder. “You’re just about as funny as some of those jokes you send me. I’m laughing. Listen to me, Sidney. You’re a scream—”
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